


Ignorance is Bliss

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bored and Ignored Fetish, Come Shot, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Fetish, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prone Bone, Quiet Sex, Valve Oral (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Jazz would like it to be known he's the one that's happy with vanilla interface; it's Prowl that's the kinky fragger.(Prowl can't explain his kinks, but he knows what he wants; Jazz just shrugs and opens his panels.)





	Ignorance is Bliss

Prowl makes his request with a typically stoic expression on his face, giving little away. But he is explaining to  _ Jazz _ , who is naturally perceptive and particularly good at picking apart Prowl's tells.    
  
There is a keenness to his tone that is inescapable, and his doorwings tremor slightly with excitement at the image in his processor. The enthusiasm is endearing. Jazz chews absently on the energon treats he's been given, ostensibly as a gift but more likely a bribe, and considers the mech in front of him.     
  
He mostly does this to make Prowl squirm a little. He has no objections to the plan, although he's curious as to why Prowl wants this.    
  
"Of course, mech," he says. "I'm on board." He tosses a last treat into his mouth with a flourish and cracks it open, rich fuel flooding his mouth.    
  
"I..." Prowl pauses and coughs. "I find the idea.. attractive..." There is a brief pause, where Jazz can almost hear him organising his next words. "To want you so much and for you to merely tolerate my advances..."    
  
Jazz reaches out  and under his digits Prowl's jaw is clenched tight and stiff, so he kisses him softly as a balm. "Basically ya just wanna have your way with me, an' all I gotta do is pout an' looked bored?"    
  
Prowl rubs his cheek into Jazz's servo. "Yes. I do not truly understand why I find the idea so perversely erotic. I just know I do."    
  
"Mech, some things are probably left unexplained," says Jazz, who has a great many kinks he doesn't particularly want examined in the light of day.    
  
"I hope this is not too strange for you."   
  
"This is _tame_ for us," laughs Jazz, who just the previous cycle had willingly choked on Prowl's spike for joors and would be happy to do it again anytime it was requested. "An' anyway we have  _ this _ ."    
  
He pings the signal for a compromised agent directly into their private short range comm, and watches Prowl's battle computer momentarily assume control of his systems to analyse the threat level. Everything settles quickly as there is no true threat but it is reassuring to know that it functions so well. Jazz doubts he'll need it this time though.    
  
Prowl presses a kiss to Jazz' palm and smiles, a small twisted quirk of the corner of his mouth. It's very attractive and Jazz tells him so, earning him an even more wicked expression.    
  
"I think we should put my request on a backburner for the moment," says Prowl, vocaliser a husky grumble and his engine picking up to a rumble. His arms slip around Jazz waist and pull him in closer, butting a boxy thigh up against his pelvis. "Because as much as this idea tempts me, I really do like you enthusiastic."    
  
Boredom is not something Jazz is best-suited for, but he can _definitely_ do enthusiasm.   


* * *

Later that evening, a little buzzed from some illegally brewed highgrade and still grooving to that latest set of decent beats he's come across on the humans' airwaves, Jazz has the perfect excuse to whine a little when Prowl decides it's time to leave the rec room. 

His sensitive audials pick up the others joking about them going  ro sleep in separate berths or interfacing strictly spark-to-spark - the old fashioned, 'proper' manner of ‘facing - and it sets him to giggling. It is probably for the best that they don’t realise that it is Jazz who quite likes a bit of spark-to-spark and Prowl who is the filthy minded fragger.    
  
Speaking of which... Jazz digs his heels in and refuses to move, recalling the discussion  they had had only that morning.   
  
"Come with me." Prowl encourages him softly, pulling him close in the quiet of the corridor. His servo settles over Jazz's aft and squeezes, the plating shifting closer to protoform. Half leaning over him, doorwings wide and spread to block the view of anyone who might come out of the rec room, Prowl is a sight to behold. "Please, Jazz?"    
  
Jazz would do anything to touch protoforms with this mech. His initial instinct is to blurt an affirmative and climb him like the hot structure he is, but Prowl's tone makes it vibrantly obvious he wants to play.    
  
So instead he sighs and pouts, refusing optic contact petulantly. "I was havin’ fun," he mutters, fighting the urge to smile when he hears Prowl's vents speed up at the realisation of his fantasy coming to fruition.    
  
"We will have our own fun," promises Prowl. Jazz shivers minutely at the lust in his voice. "You just have to come with me."    
  
Inside Jazz is hopping on the spot with delight. Outwardly though he groans and drags his pedes for a few steps, but lets himself be led to their berthroom regardless.    


* * *

As the door slides shut behind them, Prowl has already pulled them from the little anteroom and towards the berth. Jazz breaks away and sits down on the end of the berth with a huff, kicking his pedes up and then  squirming with put-on irritation as he's pulled back to sit against the pillows instead. 

Prowl settles in beside him, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. His nearest doorwing settles down over the low headboard, the low quiver transmitting to Jazz’ audial as an excited buzz. He inclines a little more towards the noise, making it look like he was slumping sulkily.    
  
Prowl pets the nearest thigh, rubbing in slow circles over highly polished metal, as he mutters sweet things against the same audial. It's hard to not respond in kind, especially as that servo brushes the gaps in his armour, tweaking thin wires to transmit the vibrations into his sensors. Jazz lets his thighs fall apart a little more, but makes no noise until Prowl's digits slip into his hip joint and stroke a superficial sensor bundle.    
  
There's no point making it easy. In fact that's the opposite of the point.   
  
He gasps and twists away, clutching Prowl's servo to pull questing digits off his sensor. This does not distract Prowl.in the slightest, taking Jazz' servo in his own and interlacing their digits, white contrasting with his black in a handsome arrangement. Jazz admires the sight briefly and then shuffles as Prowl brings their servos down to rub over his own panel.    
  
"Please," the tactician rumbles, leaning in to nose at Jazz' neck in a way the mech knows that Jazz can't resist. Slagger. "Can I?"    
  
Normally Jazz would nod enthusiastically, and probably climb atop of Prowl's lap for easier access, but today he just sighs and rolls his head back.  "Yeah sure," he mutters, "If you must."   
  
Prowl shivers, doorwings perking up, and flicks his panel back. His spike pressurises in quick pulses until it juts hungrily from his protoform, and then Jazz' servo is clasped around the thick length. He flexes his fingers against Prowl's hold, as if about to free himself, but he's held tightly.    
  
Jazz reclines back, watching his own servo stroke Prowl’s spike, like he is a little tired by what was happening. In really his frame is warming and his own panels are heating up, but he buckles down to make it difficult to sense his building arousal.   
  
Not having to focus on the rhythm of his strokes is really a boon in disguise. He can focus instead on the rippling pattern of platelets against the sensitive tips of his digits, the soft pulses of charge from the superficial nodes, the soft fluid tackiness of the droplets of transfluid. Jazz bites his lip to quash his urge to moan.    
  
Despite his silence - perhaps even because of it - Prowl seems delighted. His vents come in short sharp pants, optics fixed where his hand clasps Jazz' tight around his spike, flickering every so often to watch his lover’s expression. Jazz can only imagine what he sees there - a pouting uninterest or somemech fighting his arousal?. Regardless Prowl seems to like it enough to stir his pace a bit faster, more silvery droplets slicking Jazz' servo.  Doorwings trenor and lift a little more, a tell for impending climax, and Jazz is almost disappointed it might end so soon when his servo is released. Hot air, heavy with condensation, dampens his flank as Prowl's system tries to dump the heat from his internals.    
  
"Not done yet?" He says, inspecting his servo with a distant expression and then, ina calculated unimpressed manner, rubs the mess across his chest, wetting a headlight and the corner of his bumper . Prowl follows the movement hungrily and then lunges in for a kiss so sudden Jazz gasps into it; digits going to grope headlights and bumper with equal fervour. By the time Prowl pulls away Jazz is light headed with processor heat and far too stunned to try to complain when he's dragged down the berth sheet and flipped onto his front.    
  
"Manhandlin' me now?" He grumbles, as he's pulled up onto his knees and elbows.    
  
Seemingly Prowl doesn't hear him, just kneels up on the berthfoam behind him and grasps his hips. His digits trail through the joint spaces, tweak at wires and cables and generally just frustrate him as they rub over his pelvic armour. Jazz' panel is feeling uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic against his rapidly warming array. Given Prowl's spike is out and very much in play, he dims the input from his own spike and shivers as the sensitivity of his valve array skyrockets.    
  
Prowl bows to mouth against his hip cables, glossa slipping out to lap at sensors. When he presses a kiss to the centre of Jazz' panel - pressing the metal tight to the plump mesh - it's impossible to resist any longer.    
  
"Have it your way then," he says and transforms the panels back. This is something he regrets, because instantly there are digits against his mesh, spreading the rim of his valve open for a hot, wet glossa to lick into the centre of him. Jazz has to shove his own digits into his mouth to  choke back the moan that threatens.    
  
He loves getting his valve eaten out, and Prowl is a champion at it. Jazz’ knee joints are weak in moments, and he has to tilt forward to lean on his bumper and shove his face into the pillows. Somehow he holds his glossa, but there's nothing that stops how wet his valve gets. Prowl devours him, passion evidently in every push of his glossa and purse of his lips. He sucks hard on Jazz' anterior node and the smirk on his mouth is palpable against Jazz' protoform when he finally wrenches a moan from Jazz’ vocaliser   
  
"Gorgeous," Prowl breathes, air from his vents cooling the wet protoform.   
  
"You slagger," Jazz grunts, fighting to get his field under control and his elbows back underneath his frame. Finally he manages to prop himself up again, cushioning his chin on a crooked servo; it gives him a petulant pose and curve his pelvis up at a slightly more accessible angle.  Prowl doesn't help by diving his glossa as deep as possible, tripping deeper nodes with the faint pressure and then purring against his mesh. Jazz has to bite the joint of his own thumb to control the squawk that threatens   
  
"You taste beautiful," murmurs Prowl, still close enough for the vibrations to shiver Jazz' sensors. "So wet for me..."    
  
Lubricant is already starting to track down Jazz' thighs, spread in slippy handprints across his aft when Prowl grasps his hips. He's soaking wet, nodes throbbing with charge amid the slick, just about as wet as he's ever been, and he still has to pretend to be bored. It's a special sort of torment, and he would just love to shove his valve back onto Prowl’s face untilt the mech was half-drowned in his lubricant. But it is Prowl's fantasy and he has to behave.    
  
"You'll feel so good around my spike," groans Prowl, pressing a long kiss to the throbbing anterior node and breaking away. Jazz huffs a vent out, and then chokes on static as the blunt tip of Prowl's spike shoves up against his node instead. It's solid, more friction than before, and Jazz instinctively shunts back onto it. His valve opens smoothly around it, hard and thick and just curved in the right way to grind along the sensory plexus.  Jazz collapses back down from his elbows helplessly, and drags a berth pillow closer to hug it.    
  
For a moment, Prowl seems equally stunned, flexing his grip around Jazz' hips before essaying a slow grind further in and then a gentle retreat. Jazz has to bite at the pillow to mask his whimper and keeps his face smothered there as he's fragged stupid.    
  
Normally he's the noisy one in berth - groaning and gasping and generally making sure his berth partner knew how much he approved - so it’s strange and difficult to be so quiet. But it’s also oddly satisfying, because instead his sensitive audials can pick up the clatter of their armour and the soft slick noise of a thick spike stroking his valve mesh. Even better is the rumble of Prowl's engine, the static hiss of his vents and, finally, a low moan. It sounds like it’s torn from the very heart of him.

Elegant hands squeeze his hips, slide up his belly, grope his bumper as Prowl leans down over him, arranged over his back like he was designed to fit there. Jazz is blanketed from aft to shoulders, hot and shivering with lust.    
  
Jazz had never expected to find it hot beyond the normal pleasure of getting fragged but actually it is shockingly sexy; Prowl is purring and pawing at him, gasping and keen in a way he only shows in the berth. His thrusts are just the perfect angle, scoring every node like a sniper hitting every target, and Jazz' self-control wobbles.

"I can _feel_ how much you like it," snarls Prowl. "Why don't you tell me?" 

He can hold his glossa no longer and moans out loud, only half-muffled in the pillow. Prowl's servos squeeze harder at his waist, and he pants something obscene about Jazz' frame, how hot and tight and wet he is, how nicely he fits Prowl's spike. He's being used, a snug place for Prowl to bury his spike even despite his apathy, and he  _ likes _ it.    
  
Not that he's going to show it just yet.    
  
"Frag," he spits instead, "Just overload already."    
  
Prowl seems spurred by this, frags him harder until Jazz' thighs sting from the pounding and he's hiccuping faintly with the pulses of pleasure from his array. His charge shoots up higher and higher and, all of a sudden he's overloading hard around that lovely spike, choking on his own yelp.    
  
The charge hammers through his sensornet, leaving him briefly senseless with pleasure, the only input still registering the throbbing pleasure from his valve. It takes a long time to fade; when his visor flickers back on, he's nearly face down in the pillow he'd been clutching. Prowl is straddling his thighs now, his hips flat on the bed where his knees have buckled, paused in his thrusting.    
  
"You are all right?" The mech growls, vocaliser tight and weaved with static.    
  
Jazz hitches his thighs together a.little more tightly and nearly sobs with how split open he feels, in the best possible way. A bit of overstimulation was a good thing as far as he was concerned - so it made sense to provoke his lover a little more.   
  
"Why haven't you finished?" He whines, leaning his helm.on the pillow and half shuttering his visor. "Prowler, let me recharge. I'm  _ bored _ ."   
  
Engine revving, Prowl frags him hard, hips pistoning and servos clenching tight around his waist. Jazz shudders under the onslaught, extra spikes of charge raking his frame and glitching out his sensory net again and again. Finally his frame builds enough charge to tip into a second overload, and amid the static of his charge blowing out again does he sense Prowl lose the last of his composure.    
  
The last few thrusts are hard enough to drive yelps from Jazz and then Prowl wrenches back and spills over Jazz' upturned aft and thighs.    
  
"Mech," groans Jazz, shivering at the slick sensation running down the exposed protoform between his thigh and cooling into the hollow of the curve of his back. "You are too much, Prowler..."    
  
With a grunt, Prowl sinks back into the root, still enough pressure in his spike to press firmly into Jazz' swollen mesh. His frame isn't light but it’s almost pleasant to have his weight pressed down over Jazz' back and shoulders, his spike only just hard enough to stay buried deep.    
  
Aside from the clink of their cooling frames and the whirr of fans working hard, there is silence for a few moments.    
  
"I just wanna make it clear," says Jazz in the quiet, no longer inclined to be less than interactive, "That despite everythin’ I just said - all of that was hotter than a smelter."   
  
"I told you we would make our own fun," murmurs Prowl, finally shifting up and off Jazz. He slumps facedown on the berth instead, but still casts a servo out to entwine their digits again.   
  
"Didn't doubt you for a second," says Jazz and squeezes back affectionately. “Tell ya what, gimme half an joor an’ I’ll show you how much fun I can make.”   


**Author's Note:**

> 'Bored and ignored' is a fetish where the partner being fucked apparently doesn't care/notice they're being shagged. 
> 
> Jazz does his best, bless him, but he hasn't quite managed the full thing. Prowl doesn't mind - he finds that fact that Jazz /tried/ more than hot enough. They're good boys to each other.


End file.
